


Not the way I thought it would end.

by nannouveau



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nannouveau/pseuds/nannouveau
Summary: Every once in a while John gets tired of being the sidekick. So is he too willing to consider an assignment Mycroft offers him, regardless of the risk? Sherlock certainly thinks so.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 31
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

It was the way I always fear it will end, really it seems almost inevitable. Unavoidable, even, given who I am and who he is. So it was no surprise when John went storming out. The fight was bitter to a degree that felt final. He sounded done with me.

The relief came when he showed up early the next morning. Still angry. Stubborn. But present and wanting to “hash things out,” as he put it although I’m not sure even he knew what that meant or how to go about it. His sister likely pushed him into it. God bless Harry.

I stepped back from the door and waved him in, saying “well, we’ve made quite a hash of things already so we may as well keep going,” and trying on a slight smile. Enough to test the waters without setting off yet another explosion of his infamous temper. If he weren’t so small and boyish looking, I’m not sure he would have any friends at all, but people tend to forgive him easily. He usually does not scare them even when they should be scared. 

As for me, forgiveness never even entered the picture, that being something that was totally unnecessary. John was essential to my life, to my being, and so I did not ever even think in those terms. Whatever his rages, I weather them and gladly to have him stay with me. I am, after all, really not that sensitive at heart. I want what I want.

He, however, was overburdened with a harsh Catholic conscience, so I learned to speak of grievance and pardon but I learned that foreign tongue only to accommodate him. And truly I wished I could excise that particular way of thinking from his mind, he would breathe easier without it. But that way of thinking, that sense of responsibility and tendency toward masochistic self sacrifice was so much a part of him, I suppose I would not recognize him without it. And, to be completely honest, it worked in my favor so many times when I needed him that I am not sure we would work as a couple without it. 

So. I made the tea and got the biscuits, since he would need those signals that he was welcome back home even if he was not ready to listen to those words. He sat in his chair looking down, looking defeated. I brought him his tea.

“So… where do we start? How do we 'hash this out', as you put it?”

John looked up sharply, clearly wondering if I was mocking him. He must have been reassured by the expression on my face, since he began with an apology. 

“Ahem… Look… Sherlock. I know I am a right arsehole when I get a head of steam up. I did not want things to go the way they did last night.”

“How did you want it to go, John? We both have our jealous snits, that is nothing new. What was so different last night? You drank too much, danced too much with someone other than myself, I objected. It happens.”

“Christ, Sherlock. I don’t even know myself.” He let his head sink back all the way to the back of his chair, looking to the ceiling, and I realized he did not want to let tears spill. “I’m a crap partner, aren’t I.”

I stood. 

“Stop it, John. Don’t waste our time. We’re both crap partners, if you want the truth, so let’s just agree that we were made for each other. But why all the flirting last night, you knew exactly what you were doing.” I thought for a moment. Added, “This is about Mycroft, isn’t it. His offer. Wanting you to work for him on an issue of ‘national importance’ as he put it. My answer is still no.”

“You arrogant bastard! That’s exactly what I was talking about. Who… how… just exactly how do you think it’s your call to make, that’s exactly what I mean! For Christ’s sake Sherlock I may not have an ‘international reputation’ (much aggrieved eye rolling here, really his expressions are marvelous to watch) “but I am an accomplished person, do you not see that! Do you ever even wonder what it is like to live in your shadow! I am willing to do it, have been for years, which is why when, every once in a while, I have an urge to do something on my own. Do you not get that?!”

Alright, then. We were getting somewhere. I prodded a bit more. I knew he was not done with his shouting yet. 

“So, John. You what… need to spend time with another man, need to make me fume watching you, watching THEM watching you. You have always known how to draw people in and yes, there are plenty out there who like your come-on, men and women both, it’s always been easy for you, that first lingering glance and oh-so-charming smile. You become worried that I am too sure of you and then you are off and running, flirting with everything that catches your eye. Don’t expect me to not react!”

“GODDAMN IT! Goddamn it, Sherlock you know damn well that is not what I am talking about. Stop trying to divert this into something it isn’t. I WANT this assignment. For me! This is not about you competing with Mycroft, this is about my having an opportunity to do something that matters. Something I am uniquely suited for. Can you not see that? Why can you not see that!”

He looked at me, eyes narrowing. “You’re scared. That’s what this is all about. You’re scared and you want me safe at home, never mind all the times you have taken off on some secret errand while I tried not to lose my mind because I could not reach you and did not know where you were. Well, you’re just going to have to live with it.” He stood up, squared off directly in front of me, no longer seething but instead determined, looking me in the eyes. Not blinking. 

“Sherlock. I am going to tell him yes.”

I knew then that I had lost this round. Have I mentioned that he is stubborn?


	2. Chapter Two

Even the Diogenes is practicing social distancing, as well they might given that the average age of their members is approximately, oh, beyond the pale and back again. Really, a dinosaur’s graveyard has younger bones than the ones propping up copies of The Financial Times in the reading room. I strode past them, down carpeted hallways, not removing my mask until I was in the visitors lounge where my venerable sibling was having tea. I decided not to waste any time.

“No. It is not going to happen.” 

He made a show of looking up languidly before favoring me with a reply.  
“I am sure I have no idea what you are doing here, dear brother. Perhaps you would care to enlighten me.”

I threw my copy of the Guardian at him.  
“Front page bottom left corner, and do not think for a minute I don’t know what you’re up to.”

He glanced at the headline of the article: The Squad: far right extremist group said to be gaining popularity with some ex-military. 

“Ah, I see this has caught your attention as well. In that case I am sure I don’t have to explain to you how important it is that we, shall we say, keep tabs on what they are up to? This particular group seems to have some rather… unsavory… ambitions.”

“I already told John he is under no circumstances to allow himself to be dragged into this. And that was before I even knew what you were dragging him into. But seeing this headline, it was immediately obvious what you wanted.” 

“Sherlock, I visited Baker Street on Monday at the time that I did in order to have a word with Dr. Watson in private. Of course I realized you would deduce that I had paid him a call, even if Mrs. Hudson had not mentioned it. I did it while you were out because I respect his autonomy and his ability to make his own decisions, something you seem to be incapable of doing.”

How like Mycroft to ascribe lofty motives to his subterfuge. 

“Oh, I see. You weren’t hiding anything at all. You were being thoughtful. As you began to rope him into becoming a pawn in one of your latest schemes to ensure that you have ears in as many dark corners of London as possible. Well I told him to stay out of it even before this article made it clear to me what you would want him for. He is to have no part in this!”

Mycroft had the gall to chuckle. “So. You told him to refuse my request. And how did that go over, Sherlock? I have to admit I would have enjoyed being there to watch. What exactly did he tell you I was asking of him?”

“You know very well that he told me next to nothing! You asked him to keep it confidential, you manipulative bastard. You knew his sense of duty meant he would keep the details to himself. But I am not going to let you get away with this, Mycroft. He is not your pawn, to be pushed forward on the game board to draw out more dangerous players!”

“Not my pawn? Perhaps, but apparently you believe he is yours. Did it occur to you at any point that John might welcome a chance to see some action again, for Queen and Country?”

“It makes absolutely no sense, Mycroft!” I began pacing. “Subterfuge is, well, let’s just acknowledge that it is not John’s strong suit. You have plenty of government-trained spooks whom you can send down this particular rabbit hole to see what these fine gents are up to. Agents who are trained in the fine art of living a lie, unlike John whose heart is prominently displayed on the sleeve of every shirt he owns! Why are you doing this!”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft sat up and leaned forward. “I need someone I can trust. It really is as simple as that. There is much at stake here, and given that we do not know how many are entangled in this group, I am leery of sending in one of our regulars. Too many are known, at least by sight, by people in the command chain. I need a trustworthy individual who is not enmeshed in any of these other networks. I hope to find out that this involves nothing more than a few disgruntled ex-soldiers on an imaginary power trip after a few drinks. But if there is any chance it is more than that, I need to know in what way and how high up this goes.”

“You must be developing early onset dementia, Mycroft, if you think John is not recognizable to a large percentage of the population of London! For God’s sake, after my supposed suicide he was all over the tabloids as well as some of your tonier publications, surely you don’t think he can go incognito!”

“No, not incognito. The opposite of incognito, He has the perfect cover story. Think about it: an embittered vet, betrayed by his friend, left behind and lied to, and now frustrated with the ineffectiveness of the current administration. The beauty of it, Sherlock, is that his cover will be woven into the reality of his life. Much easier to maintain that way - much easier and much more convincing.”

I have to admit that Mycroft’s description of John’s life took some of the wind out of my sails. My brother is nothing if not effective in getting you to see things his way, always has been. I was remembering the look on John’s face when he realized the waiter with the exaggerated French accent was actually not a waiter at all. If you set aside the nature of the right-wing group, it was all too easy to see John as the ‘disgruntled vet’ that Mycroft described. And it would appeal to his sense of honor to take down anyone who was impinging on the honor of Her Majesty's armed forces. I shook my head and restated my position. “No. It is not going to happen.”

“Well, then, Sherlock you’d better get home and explain it to dear Dr. Watson. Good luck with that, by the way. And I will now wish you a good day.” 

At my indignant huff, he merely smiled. The doors at the Diogenes Club close softly no matter how much force one uses. A pity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A work in process. I will post as often as I can!


	3. Chapter Three

It should come as a surprise to no one that I am a first-rate stalker. I have an eye for the subtle shifts that indicate the moods of my subject, an ability to put technology to my own uses, and a memory for behavior patterns that predict my subjectʼs future intentions. In short, my methods allow me to predict what my subject is going to do often before he himself knows.

That makes it an interesting activity when I am stalking John, something I do regularly for amusement when I have a slow day and feel bored with the world. I would expect it to be easy to follow him, given how well we know each other (and the fact that he is quite outmatched on the intellectual front) but he manages to be unpredictable at intervals and in situations that are themselves unpredictable. Interesting. I continue to analyze his patterns and while some are patently obvious, others continue to surprise me.

Today, however, was not one of those times. I followed him during his desultory stroll to the coffee shop on Marlybone, backtracking from there to board at the Baker Street Station (Really, John? Youʼre forcing me to take the Tube during a pandemic? A bit not good, wouldnʼt you say?) I was in the adjacent coach and when he got off at Embankment it was clear that he was going to see Lestrade. But not on an urgent matter, judging by his pace.

I waited a few minutes as he entered Scotland Yard during which time I jumped up and down vigorously a few times in order present myself as a bit out of breath, having rushed not to miss “our” meeting. John and Lestrade may not have been expecting me but the rest of that lot would likely not know that. I strode briskly through the main door, demanding of no one in particular, “Have they started without me?” At which Donovan simply indicated Lestradeʼs office with a tilt of her head.

“At worst, gun running, explosives...” Lestrade was saying as I opened the door. He and John looked up, John with a priceless grimace that was part annoyance and part long-suffering tolerance. Followed by a fleeting smirk, his sure give-away that he was not really angry. Ah, the many complexities of John Watsonʼs expressions. He was always flattered as well as annoyed by my unasked-for intrusions.

“So.” I slid out of my coat and took the other seat in front of Lestradeʼs desk. “How much do we know about The Squad, as they call themselves.”

“Huh. How...? Mycroft filled you in?” John should know better than to really believe that.

“Not at all. I was able to deduce the nature of his request based on your background, John, and his likely target group of potential terrorists. Where else could he find a trustworthy individual experienced with combat and firearms yet not directly affiliated with the police or the government to present as a believable candidate for the dubious honor of becoming his informant.”

I had not despaired of extricating John from this unacceptable risk. But the more I centered myself in the plan, the better to control the outcome. I leaned across the desk and gave the DI my full attention.

“So, Lestrade, what do you know about this illustrious group of reprobates?

After glancing at John, who nodded, the DI continued.

“Weʼve been hearing some rumbling since the street demonstrations heated up. Rumors that right wingers, some kind of militant group, were responsible for the smashed windows and rock-throwing. Best we could tell, this was an informal alliance on the part of some pissed-off whingers from all over London and here-abouts. But more recently, some intel is that they are getting more serious, looking to acquire arms and explosives. Some dissatisfied vets getting involved. And a couple of guys come over from Dublin. Thatʼs upped the ante a bit, as you can imagine. The commissioner is getting nervous, wanted to see what kind of info MI5 could offer, given the arms connection. And that led around to him seeing if John here was a possible candidate to infiltrate.”

John was thinking hard. It worried me.

“Ok,” he said, “Mycroft gave me a couple of names, people he is looking at. There are a couple of pubs they are likely to hang out at. I go in, spend some time having a pint or two, watch a game - I can get a conversation going and see where theyʼre coming from.”

Lestrade was clearly a bit worried, too.

“Youʼre gonna have to play this one really carefully, mate. These guys are not going to fill out a questionnaire about their hobbies and theyʼre not going to like anyone asking.”

“Yeah yeah, I know, Greg... I know. Iʼm not planning on jumping in doing interviews while holding a mic in front of their faces. Iʼm just going to hang out and see what happens.”

I sputtered a laugh of disbelief.

“Thatʼs your plan, John? Hang out and see what happens. Well thatʼs a brilliant strategy if I ever heard one.”

A miscalculation on my part. I could see Johnʼs neck stiffen and shoulders square. His response was downright mulish.

“Just shut it, Sherlock! Shut it and stay out of it if youʼve got nothing useful to add. I know what these guys are like, and yeah, as a matter of fact my brilliant plan is to go and have a pint and play some darts. And you know what? Itʼs the best way to get a foot in the door, it really is. So unless youʼve got a better idea... no, you know what? Even if youʼve got a better idea, ESPECIALLY if youʼve got a better idea - I donʼt want to hear it. Iʼll see you back at home.” He nodded to Lestrade as he briskly got up to leave. “Greg - thanks. Iʼll keep you updated.”

As John strode away, Lestrade had the look of a man who wished heʼd left early on this particular day. “Sherlock... look. I know this is a bit out of the ordinary for you...”

“Oh really, Gavin? You figured that out all on your own...”

“Ok, Sherlock, Iʼm the second person this hour to tell you to just shut it. It is blatantly obvious that youʼre worried. Look, I know what John means to you, itʼs got to be a bit tough to see him walking into this one. But he wants to be useful! Think of it: heʼs been out of the service for a while now, doing locum work and being your assistant. So stop sulking and support him in this one, ok?”

“I am NOT sulking! I am just trying to inject a note of caution into this hare-brained scheme.”

“Alright, alright, far be it for me to tell you youʼve got issues! Just... give him a little support, ok? He doesnʼt need to have his feet kicked out from under him in the middle of this.”

“A little support? Oh, Iʼll do better than that,” I called out without looking back as I exited.


	4. Chapter 4

It being a mild day, I decided to walk back to Baker Street, taking my time and giving myself a chance to ruminate over the meeting in Lestrade’s office. I realized something about the conversation was nagging at my mind. As I replayed it in my head, it stood out: the commissioner. Lestrade had mentioned the commissioner. He would have been the one to contact Mycroft. The commissioner wanted to see if John was available to infiltrate the gang. 

Why would the commissioner think of John when looking for someone to exploit to the department’s advantage? They barely knew each other. It did not sit well. There had been a shake up at New Scotland Yard since my “death” and reinstatement, but a lot of the old players remained. My redemption had eased my way back through the door but hard feelings remained. There were those who no doubt would not want to miss a chance to cause trouble for me, and by extension, John. I texted Lestrade.

—How did the commissioner learn of John and his military background? SH

—Not sure, could’ve been the chief superintendent. Why?

I pocketed my phone. Ah yes. The chief superintendent who was familiar with John’s right hook, courtesy of their altercation the night I was arrested. Mycroft had pulled some significant strings to get John off serious charges - although the ineptitude of the officers who allowed me to take John “hostage” also influenced the outcome. But safe to assume the chief superintendent had neither forgiven nor forgotten. He saw a chance to put John at risk and he used it, put John's name forward as the perfect man for the job. All the while looking like he was being oh-so-helpful. Maybe he even hoped John would go rogue so he could finally 'nail' him, to use the vernacular. 

My stroll to Baker Street took a bit more than an hour and when I arrived the day was dimming and John was making tea. I realized John would be more open to discussion if I were to play the penitent so I apologized before accepting a cuppa and a biscuit. He just shook his head.

“Look, Sherlock, I do realize that you are worried, whether you admit it or not. You don’t need to apologize. If it makes you feel any better, Greg and I talked about how I can signal if things get sticky, so I can get some backup…”

“John.” I learned in to him at the stove. He had to look up. “Do. Not. Trust. Anyone. Particularly that lot. Other than Lestrade, there will be no one who you can rely on to ‘have your back.’ Don’t expect it and don’t count on it.”

He gave me a long, considered look. Assessing. He nodded, looking serious.  
“Yeah. That didn’t go so well in the past, did it.” (Sad? Why was he sad?) He turned and went to busy himself at the fireplace, putting in a couple of logs and some kindling. 

He got a small flame going and as he watched it grow he shifted to get more comfortable there on the rug. 

“Sherlock? What is it like for you to walk into Scotland Yard after all the water… under the bridge or over the damn or whatever…”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you are asking me, John.” 

“I don’t know how you weather these things, Sherlock. I want to slug someone pretty much every time I walk through that door and see those guilty looks. They were just so damned smug, so self righteous, so sure they were right about you. When they could not have been more wrong.” 

Oh, I don’t know about that, John,” I drawled, “Some of them have good instincts. They are just limited in their thinking. And they were played by Moriarty, the master manipulator. I rather think they were more wrong about you than about me.”

“About me? How were they wrong about me?”

I sat down next to him on the floor by the fire. Leaned in and whispered, “they think you’re normal.” I smirked. “We both know you are not.”

“Ah, ok then… I guess. At least we have that cleared up. So… are you going to tell me about ‘normal’ now? I can’t wait.” He was chuckling now, leaning in to stoke the fire. “And what prompted you to share this insight about my character at this particular moment?”

I scooted a bit closer behind him and hugged him, resting my chin on his shoulder to watch the flames. 

“I want you to consider what you are taking on, carefully and thoroughly. I can’t lose you John Watson.” 

I began to nibble on his ear, sliding my hand under his jumper, and he began to uncoil, turning his face to me, finding my lips. By the time we were sliding down on the rug together, absorbing the warmth of the flames, the tension vibrating through my very being finally began to subside, replaced by a liquid heat. I was at last able to breathe. As long as I could cover him with my body, as long as I had the physical reassurance of mapping every inch of him, I could breathe. Not logical but true, and I realized perhaps for the first time just how much of my own sanity and well-being had become tied up with his. We were together, we were safe. For now. As long I could hold him, no harm would come to him this night. And I could breathe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess it is obvious at this point that this fic is BBC canon-compliant through S2 and relies on some knowledge of that season. Sorry about the short chapters, I seem to write best that way. Hope to make up for the brevity by posting regularly, so bear with me!


	5. Chapter 5

The next night did not prove to be in any way as reassuring. I came back to the flat after consulting with Dimmock all day on an unrelated case and found John preparing to go out. Nothing radically different about his outfit (jeans, button-down shirt, jacket) but I noted certain items of importance. A bit of stubble, he had not bothered to shave, and boots suitable for desert sand. He was wearing a kaki colored vest under his shirt, a remnant of his army days, and the chain of his dog tags was visible at the back of his neck.

“Well, John, I suppose if you want to drop some subtle hints about your military background, that is as good a way as any.”

He flushed a bit, notably his ears, as he often did when he recognized how transparent he was under my gaze. He cleared his throat a bit. 

“Yeah, well, let’s just hope these boys are somewhat observant too.”

As I flopped onto the sofa I considered my next objection. I injected a note of sincerity into my voice.

“For the sake of the public good, I must appeal to you as a physician: are you not thinking about Covid as you head out to a pub? This crowd is highly unlikely to keep their social distance and I doubt you will find them lowering a mask to take a sip of a pint.”

“Sherlock, while I appreciate your deep devotion to the public good” (no need to get snarky, John) “you do recall that I already had the virus, right? Courtesy of my work at the clinic? Less than 2 months ago? And anyway, now I test negative. I should have some resistance and I likely won’t be spreading it around.”

Stubborn. I decided to save my energy for figuring out how best to track him as he recklessly wanders into the lion’s den. He came and sat on the coffee table, facing me.

“Hey. Look at me.” I looked up at him, as requested. “You do realize that Mycroft has likely got the place bugged and there are cameras in every corner.”

“John. Let me help you. How many times have you - very wisely, I might add - told me not to head out on my own. And now you should have back up.”

“You have one of the most recognizable faces in London. And it would kind of put a crimp in my storyline - the vengeful, betrayed blogger of the great Sherlock Holmes, remember?” He smirked and shook his head. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours, just like any other time I’ve gone to the pub.”

I spent the next hours online, gathering everything I could find on the group known as The Squad. They initially got together as a loosely organized bunch purportedly to play rugby, and perhaps more to the point, to drink together afterward. One of the group, Jack Davies, dishonorably discharged from the service, seemed to hold some authority judging by his presence in the news as well as his Youtube Channel where he spouted venom about immigrants and foreigners, and any government figure he deemed soft on crime. Nothing too original there. But he seemed to have a certain charisma, an ability to inspire others to follow him - and there were certain veiled threats implied in his rants as he carried on about how long are “we” going to watch our country being taken over by foreigners. 

Mycroft was right, although I would not be telling him that any time soon. This group did bear watching. 

Steps on the stairs revealed weariness and anger when John arrived home, hours later. I was bent over my microscope in the kitchen. Even without seeing his face clearly as he entered our dimly lit flat, I could read tension in the line of his shoulders as he shrugged off his coat. As he came in to put on the kettle I smelled stale booze, the smoke of other people’s cigarets, and the sweaty scent of stress on him. 

I sat back from the microscope and looked at him. 

“No need to guess, it is obvious that you had three pints, played darts, and endured approximately three hours of particularly vile homophobic slurs while pretending to laugh at racist jokes and discussions of conspiracy theories, all the while acting as if you, like them, were fed up with the majority of this administration’s policies and ready to do something about it. So did you make some new friends tonight, John?”

He ran both hands over his face, straightened and stretched his shoulders, and gave a sigh. 

“Christ, Sherlock, it was a lot more than the usual foul language and kidding around. I’m used to that sort of thing, it’s just how we talked in the service pretty much all the time. But tonight… I guess I would say there is something… a kind of hostility behind the jokes, you know? Not the sort of good-natured ribbing guys do when they are just trying to size you up. Nothing good natured about this crew - lots of paranoia though, so that was charming. But I think I can find a way in, to see what they are up to."

He brought over two steaming cups and sat facing me. I leaned forward and reached over, cupping the side of his face with my hand. He closed his eyes and leaned into it. 

“Hey.” I kept my voice gentle. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m ok… really. Just tired. I should write up a report for Mycroft, though.” 

I got up and drew him to his feet. 

“You are now going to get ready for bed and go lie down at which point your tea will be cool enough to drink and I will bring it to you.”

He gave me a genuine chuckle. “You are really quite sure of yourself, aren’t you? What makes you think that all it takes to seduce me is a cup of tea?”

“Well, it is very good tea - after all, you made it. But no, I know you very well my friend, and I have no need of tea to seduce you.” I moved in towards him and clasped his head with both hands. I spoke directly into his ear. “I can do that quite well on my own, and you know it. I know what you want before you do, John. And I know how to give it to you.” 

His hands were on my forearms, but not pulling me off. I turned his face up towards me a bit and looked into his open, deep blue stare. No barriers, no hesitation, even after being subjected to an evening of verbal challenge and abuse. He had long ago resolved his own doubts and once committed, was fully committed. My John, undaunted. I stepped back and murmured “Oh, I’ve got plans for you. Go take your clothes off.”

Judging by the shuddering breath he drew, it was working. 

“Ahem, yes, well then…” he mumbled, ’I’ll see you in bed, then,” and headed off, his face ruddy and his eyes pleased. I quickly put away the items from my kitchen lab that needed to be protected, and headed to the bedroom. I forgot the tea - but then, he forgot to hold that against me.


	6. Chapter 6

The next two weeks established a pattern in John’s engagement with the men of ‘The Squad’ as they persisted in calling themselves. John would head to the pub, The Black Dog’s Bone, and spend time insinuating himself into the bunch there. I had by this time broken in at night to set up microphones in several places in the room and was able to insert a camera up near one of the beams overhead. I felt better being able to monitor who was present and what was said. 

Initially, it was routine; the lads prodding John, the newcomer, to find out who he was and what he was about, the predictable jokes about our relationship and his ‘manhood’ based on what they had seen in the tabloids, with John putting on a good front as an angry, irritable tosser and flirting with every woman who gave him a second look. (And we would most definitely be discussing that later whether he wanted to or not.) Come to think of it, maybe it was not so much a front as it was a regression to his former self, the John I first met, disillusioned and looking for any way he could find to feel something other than anger and defeat.

They played darts, and John often won, sometimes with ease. It was fascinating to watch him in action, and at times I put on my most inconspicuous disguise to sit in the corner typing away at my laptop like the depressed uni student I was playing. But watching John in action, oh. There were revelations yet to be observed, the way his stance and movements changed when he was with a group of men who were very much embedded in traditional male posturing. John became more defiant, louder, more brazenly insulting, giving as good as he got, and I could see the Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers in him, taking no shit from his men and not overly concerned about whether they liked it. And he laughed with them. Loudly, and a lot. It occurred to me just how much he had lost when he was injured and ill nearly to the point of death in Afghanistan, discharged and sent ‘home’ with no real home or purpose in life to come back to. 

As they were wrapping up a dart game one night, Will remarked on John’s skill (or, being a “lucky bastard,” as Will put it) and the talk turned to skill of another sort, with firearms. The conversation turned into a veritable festival of bragging about unlikely feats of accuracy and skill, and I could see John joining in with some real gusto. He always did like his gun and being a natural crack shot, he knew his weaponry. That was how the assignation was made to go to a clandestine shooting range somewhere on the outskirts of an industrial park to do some target practice. I slipped out and returned to the flat, waiting for John to make his slightly inebriated way home to see if I could tell how all of this was affecting him. 

He was getting somewhere with this group. It worried me.

As I approached 221B I noted the knocker had been straightened, which could only mean one thing. Mycroft. I sighed and entered. He looked up from where he was seated (in MY chair, of course) and nodded a greeting.

“Sherlock.”

“Alright, what is it this time brother dear?”

“Let us wait until the good doctor gets here. I have come to discuss something that involves you both.” 

“Oh goodie, I can hardly contain myself. No... actually I can. Let me know when you wish to share your secrets, I have an experiment that requires my attention.”

I busied myself in the kitchen with my microscope until I heard John’s steps on the stairs. I continued while he entered and gave Mycroft a gruff greeting, and waited further until Mycroft rolled his eyes and called out, “Yes, Sherlock, if you will now grace us with your attention there are things we need to talk about.”

As I returned to the room and flopped on the couch, Mycroft addressed himself to John.

“Are you aware of a man named Jack Davies, Dr. Watson?” 

“I’ve heard mention of a bloke named Jack, but I don’t know much about him,” was John’s response. Mycroft explained what I had already learned through my own research, that Davies was an ex-military man and likely the organizer for the group of toughs at the Black Dog’s Bone. John nodded, looking thoughtful. “It does seem that his name comes up in reference to making any plans. They mentioned that he will be at the shooting range this weekend.”

“My operatives bugged his flat some time ago, John, so we have been keeping tabs.” (He gave this pronouncement In his most practiced reassuring tone, and combined with the use of John’s first name I gathered he was moving in for the strike now.) “We learned that he is interested in you, John, based on the reports from his men but continues to harbour a number of suspicions about your connection with Sherlock. We need to somehow convince him that the two of your are ‘on the outs’ with each other, permanently. It must be public knowledge and he must believe it.” 

John looked as annoyed as I felt. He sat back in his chair and snorted a laugh.

“Mycroft, given that Sherlock and I are not actually legally married I don’t know how we are going to be able to get divorced. And then there would be the whole question of who gets custody of Mrs. Hudson, we could be in court forever.” 

I snickered as well and Mycroft again rolled his eyes. “I would advise you both to take this seriously. Any cracks in his story” (Mycroft glared at me) “and John will be in greater danger. You and he will stage a fight, a very public fight, perhaps in a coffee shop where you will have plenty of witnesses and one of my operatives can be present to get a video on her mobile. She will then post it to her Instagram account and to YouTube where it will no doubt, ‘go viral’ as they say. So make it a good one. After the fight, John will go stay in a bedsit we have arranged. And you, Sherlock, will need to keep your distance, no more sneaking behind his back to follow his every move.

John’s expression said it all: he had not noticed me in the pub, and now his face reflected a struggle to reconcile his contradictory feelings about the humiliation of being watched without noticing it, along with some gratification at the thought. Oh, John. Did my actions not tell you everything?

As usual when he could not decide how to feel, he chose to be irritable. “So Sherlock, you’ve been following me? What are you now, my nanny?” 

I ignored him. “Mycroft. Why are you doing this. You know damn well that I need to be a part of this, that it will do no good to try to separate us.” My voice was rising steadily. Mycroft, the puppet master, moving us about like pieces on a chess board. “Taking him away from 221B will only leave him more isolated and at greater risk, and furthermore…”

“Enough!” Mycroft stood abruptly. “Once you put your sizable ego aside, Sherlock, you will realize the importance of this part of the plan. John, I will text you and Sherlock with the assigned time and place. Be ready for it tomorrow afternoon. And I will now bid you both good evening.”

John and I looked at each other in silence for a few moments after he had left. I got up and paced restlessly. 

“So... Sherlock. He may have a point.”

“I don’t care. He is enjoying this too much, manipulating what we say and do.”

“Ok, you’re not wrong Sherlock, I just think we need to set that aside and think about this. He has a point, and a public fight could help my storyline with the gang.”

“You want to do this, then? You think it will protect your position with them, John?” When he nodded, I sighed. “As you wish, then. I suppose we won’t have to spend too much time coming up with something to fight about, God knows we have plenty of material to work with.”

“Hey, don’t get into a snit over this. It makes sense. And it’s only for a little while.”

I moved to the window and thought for a moment, looking out.

“Alright. I will do it for you but I don’t like it. And do not expect me to simply disappear when you are out there with them. The situation is too volatile and unpredictable. I must insist on being present, even on the periphery. You know you have a tendency to getting in over your head."

John laughed. “Yeah, I know. But the truth is you wouldn't miss it for the world, you tosser! No, I wouldn't expect you to bow out of something like this. Not just when it's getting exciting.” He moved in closer, grabbing my shoulders and turning me to face him. “I know you're not going to skip out on the fun, we both know how you love the drama!” Affectionate. Teasing.

But I was somber. I moved him closer with a hug that was tight and deeply sincere. I rested my cheek on the top of his head. “That’s not it John! Well, ok, that is part of it, but the bigger part of it is you, John. I will always be there for you. I want you to know that, finally, to believe that. I will not let you down.”

And so we had our last night together for some time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up for our boys and for the case. Warning for a sexually confusing/abusive incident.

I had been up most of the night, long after John had drifted into a satiated sleep. He had been aggressive and demanding in bed, fueled no doubt at least in part by his anxiety about what was to come. He was endlessly attentive and inventive as a lover (due no doubt to years of practice). Whatever else I thought about his seemingly endless stream of lovers before me, I did derive some benefit from his level of experience. I could not imagine anyone ever making me feel what he did. As he slept I ghosted my fingertips over his shoulders, his down his back, over the curve of his butt, admiring his compact form. He was made for me, as I told him repeatedly. He had the good sense not to argue with something so obvious.

As I watched him sleep I realized I would not be drifting off myself, and went out to retrieve my violin. The composition I was working on was giving me trouble, a particular passage that just would not flow. I did not rejoin John in bed until nearly 4am. 

So I was still asleep when Mycroft’s text came though shortly after noon. I sat up, reaching for my phone, realizing that John had long since arisen and gone about whatever his business for the morning happened to be. I opened the phone to find:

—Blackfriar’s Starbucks. 3pm. MH

Damnit. Well, I told John I would do it for his sake, so I supposed I should get dressed… and then another text came through:

—Have you looked at The Sun today yet, brother dear? MH

I groaned aloud. Now what. Much as I would have liked to ignore him, curiosity took hold and I opened up the tabloid’s site for today’s ’news’ if you could call it that. I groaned again and cursed when I saw the top headline.

LONDON’S DARLING DETECTIVE JILTED BY HIS BELOVED BLOGGER?

Underneath was a large photograph from the Black Dog’s Bone. John, seated and smiling a strange, uncomfortable grimace, his head tilted to the side, away from a woman in his lap with one dainty arm around his neck, kissing his cheek, her other small hand on his lower abdomen. I enlarged the picture on the screen. A close look at the front of his jeans made it clear that he was not entirely unaffected by her attentions, whether wanted or not. And his arm encircling her waist ended up entirely too close to her ample breasts. He was physically turned on but likely not enjoying it. My John. I could have wept if I weren’t so enraged. 

I wanted to track him down and take him away. Away from London, from all the intrigue, and to tell Mycroft to fall down a sewer and stay there til he rotted. I was perfectly aware that this was a set up. Mycroft no doubt chose the most provocative of the hundreds of shots he likely had of John at the pub and passed it on to the tabloids. (Who knows, I would not put it past him to have hired the girl to get John stirred up.) With all the time spent drinking in rowdy pubs, Mycroft knew it would only be matter of time before John’s strong sexual responses put him in a compromising position, at least for a moment, and he made sure I saw it. 

My mind did not know which track to run on, derailed by an avalanche of emotion, wheels spinning uselessly. My disorganized thoughts were racing. I knew John had not actually acted on any of his flirtations at the Black Dog’s Bone - he had come to me every evening from there, a bit drunk to be sure, but clearly he came home to me and me alone, I had absolutely no doubt and I had enough microphones in the pub to know he had not left with anyone and I trusted him completely (but a voice inside whispered, remember what Harry said about him that one time at that restaurant, “surely you realize what a total horndog John is, he’s been like that ever since he was about fourteen, it’s just the way he is…”) but I knew John I trusted John but then I looked at the photo and wondered, and I looked again and… 

“STOP IT!” My own voice, loud in the empty room. Self-torture was a waste of energy that would be better spent keeping a semblance of mental balance as I moved forward with our plan, and I dressed carefully for the afternoon’s performance. Everything else would have to wait, including a few choice words with Mycroft. Even as I headed out, I had to reluctantly admit to myself that he was in fact a master manipulator. As I headed for the rendezvous I was in the mood for a fight, even recognizing that Mycroft had played John just as he was playing me. 

I arrived at the appointed time for our scheduled “fight”, having stopped to buy a copy of the tabloid with its ridiculous headline. I saw him immediately, of course, I can pick him out in a crowd anywhere despite his short stature. And given the less-dense seating they are using these days, there was plenty of room to move. I steeled myself for the explosion and strode up to his table, throwing the tabloid down over his keyboard as he sat typing, open to the incriminating photo. 

“So. Are you quite pleased with your latest conquest, John?”

John looked up at me, looked down at the paper, and paled. Clearly he had not been aware of the publicity. He stuttered for a moment, not having prepared for this particular possibility. His response was accidentally genuine.

“I… um… Look, Sherlock, this is not what it seems, she jumped on me, I had absolutely no interest in her…”

“Yes, absolutely John,” I drawled loudly and sarcastically, “It is clear from all your drunken nights out and flirtations that you have not been having a good time, but I guess given your history of promiscuity on three continents, that is to be expected.” 

People at other tables were beginning to look, surreptitiously, and sure enough one girl was recording everything on her phone. I could see his confusion at that point, were we fighting for show or for real? But his ire was up and he responded in kind.

“Look you wanker, you never trusted me, you are INCAPABLE of trusting anyone, no matter how much they run after you, tell you how much you matter, prove to you every sodding day that they care!” And he launched into a blistering string of invective - he always had a talent for the creative use of language - which culminated in his letting me know that he had “fucking had it” with being tricked and made a fool of by me.

I thought of a white hot meteor, Incandescent, burning up in the atmosphere, and suddenly I did not want this to go on any further, wanted to put a stop to it before any more potential damage occurred. 

“Well John, that is very clear. If you would like to clear out your room and leave the keys with Mrs. Hudson this afternoon, I will be sure to be absent.”

He looked devastated and I could not bear to see his face. I turned abruptly and stormed off. I wanted to text him immediately, as soon as I was out of sight, to reassure him that I meant none of it, to beg forgiveness (ah, there was a surprise, I actually felt it badly, kept thinking of his face). But I did not want to text too soon, let him get out of the range of the witnesses at the cafe and the girl with her mobile so that his relief would not be a matter of public record.

I walked for a while, gave him some time, and then texted.

—Are you alright? SH

A minute passed before he responded. 

—I can’t do this like this. I need to see you.

—Remember the case of the peg leg? Meet me at that pier. SH

He got there first. He was sitting on a bench at the end of the pier, leaning forward, elbows on his knees looking down at the water. I approached cautiously, trying to gage his state of mind, trying to figure out just how much damage needed to be undone. 

He looked up, miserable. “Hey.” I waited, and slowly sat beside him. 

“Sherlock, it really wasn’t at all like it looks.”

“John, I know that already. Tell me what happened that night.”

“Ok…um… well, this girl comes up while I was with the lads, we’d had quite a few at that point, and anyway…” he drew a shaky breath, looking embarrassed and ashamed, “She jumped in my lap and grabbed me. You know. Grabbed my cock. I had to pull her hand off, but I don’t know, I just… didn’t want to make a big deal of it in front of the guys, I guess I just reached a limit with all their digs about gays, I just wanted out of there!”

“John, what would you call that if it were reversed - if a man did that to a woman?”

“I know, I know, but that does not help, I just need you to believe me, please, Sherlock…”

I drew him in closely, stroking him and whispering my reassurances in his ear. And then told him three inventive ways I planned to torture Mycroft before killing him slowly. John laughed, finally, at that, pulled back and asked, “ok but why Mycroft?”

“I am reasonably certain he set up that whole scenario with the girl at the bar in order to reinforce the plan.”

Once his initial moment of outrage passed, John took a deep breath and feigned disappointment. “So wait, you’re telling me she wasn’t just overcome by my massive and irresistible sex appeal? Is that really what you are saying? Because I’ve had a long day and I’m not sure I can take it, being crushed yet again today.”

Oh John. Your willingness to roll with the punches always did (and still does) amaze me. My tough, resilient soldier. I remembered that there was an empty shed on the other side of the pier. I whispered again in his ear, despite the fact that there was no one else present to hear. 

“If you come with me, I think I can make it up to you.”

He grinned. “Oh yeah? Prove it!”

And I did. As I drew him into the shed and latched the flimsy wooden door, I could feel the heat and hardness of him. I pinned him to the wall stared at him for a long moment. I began devouring him, my mouth on his face, his lips, his ears and neck, as he groaned and grabbed back. I knelt between his legs and leaned into his crotch for one long moment, feeling that liquid heat that engulfed both of us. As I drew him into my mouth I knew he was mine alone, and with mouth and fingers I made sure he would remember it. He cried out at last, released from the unbearable tension of the day. I wanted to draw him into my coat and keep him tucked inside, invisible to the world. When all this was over, I decided, I would take him away, maybe to Italy or the south of France and we would be anonymous together. But for now we had this, and the work to do.


	8. Chapter 8

—So how is the bedsit? Did you sleep last night? SH

—The mattress is lumpy and I think I have roaches here. Will need to fumigate my stuff when I get home.

—We can manage that John. What happens today? SH

—Shooting range. Near some warehouse on the outskirts but they dont tell me where. 

—Wear those army boots. SH

—???

—I put a GPS tracker in the heel. Never fear, well hidden. SH

—Sometimes I wonder why you havent had me microchipped you git

—I wanted to suggest it. But reconsidered. SH

—Good call.

—John. Be careful. Please. SH

—Yeah yeah I know. And you stay out of trouble.

—Text me when you are able. SH

—I miss you too.

Clearly John was being drawn in further. I needed more data to assess his situation. I picked up my mobile again

—Send a car. We need to talk. SH

Very few minutes had passed before the large black car pulled up to Baker Street. I slid inside and the driver closed the door. I stared at Mycroft, saying nothing. He recognized the impending explosion and only raised a quizzical eyebrow. 

“Well, Sherlock? Is there something we need to discuss or are you here to merely vent your spleen?”

“The two are not mutually exclusive Mycroft, so let’s start with the venting. You sent that woman to harass John at the pub. Did you tell her that sexual assault was a permissible part of the game plan?! Is it gratifying to you, watching your video of that particular incident?”

Mycroft’s face did that peculiar thing it does when he is forced to admit an error, a strained twisting to the side as if he is being forced to mimic an unnatural expression.

“Sherlock, I never intended…”

“So what DID you intend, exactly? We were already on board with your plan, and as if that wasn’t toxic enough you had to provoke things further. John does not need the humiliation, particularly while he is in the middle of doing a JOB FOR YOU!”

Mycroft examined his hands, folded in his lap. I waited. I was not done yet.

“Sherlock, I do apologize. The agent’s rude behavior was uncalled for and she has been reprimanded. She was instructed to get a compromising shot and got carried away. Please extend my apologies to the good doctor.”

I spoke softly, with enunciation. He needed to hear me.

“Mycroft going forward from here in regards to any plans you make that affect John, you will inform me prior to taking action. You will now give me all the information you have from your various surveillance devices and you will keep me informed as to all future developments. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”

“Hmmm. Or else, what?”

I fixed him with a glare through narrowed eyes, feeling the momentum of anger building.

“Oh, brother mine, I think you know I am capable of wreaking havoc with your little operation. You know me well enough to know that I care about John far more than I care about you completing this investigation. I could care less if this group of thugs blows up Parliament AND Saint Paul’s in one fell swoop and I am perfectly capable of kidnapping John myself if I need to, to get him out of this.”

Mycroft stared at me, assessing. 

“Alright, Sherlock, that will be enough of that.” He looked away. “Point taken. I will send you the files and I will keep you informed. Things are in a delicate balance. We have information that whatever they are planning, they are amassing materials for explosives and will likely take action soon. The sooner we find out their plans, the sooner Dr. Watson will be home again.”

The car had made its way back to Baker Street and I was more than ready to be released from the claustrophobic interior. As I opened the door and stepped out I turned to issue one last statement.

“Just remember: I will be watching.”

The video files showed up as promised, along with a link to a live feed Mycroft’s minions had planted in the office of one Jack Davies. I scanned the video recordings as quickly as possible through predictable conversations about football, a new waitress at the pub who apparently met their approval, and finally on to something useful. Jack, Will and two others were discussing their “staffing needs,” Will apparently being something of a recruiter for the group. I focused on on one portion of the video, hearing John’s name mentioned.

Will: “Look, I think he’s promising… I like the way he thinks. I get the feeling he’s not happy just sitting around watching the nation turn to shit. I’m bringing him in for a bit of shooting so we can see what he can do.”

Jack: “So you say he did a couple tours in Afghanistan? How much do we really know about his loyalties? Anyway, we really don’t want to attract the attention of his posh fuck-buddy now, do we?”

Will: “C’mon mate, you saw the pictures - which were hilarious by the way. First we see our little Johnny with a nice girl in his lap on the front pages and then that huge blowout with the old boyfriend all over Twitter. (Laughter from all.) “And by the way, John’s got a new flat, the git threw ‘em out.”

Jack: “Hmmm. We do need a shooter with a good eye to watch the doors while we rig things up on D Day.”

Will: “Let’s see what he can do with a gun. He’s always got his on him, seems to know his way around a weapon, I wouldn’t be surprised if he turns out to be useful. We’ve got time to try him out on a couple of smaller jobs before the big day.”

The conversation turned to other matters, including that someone named Colin would be sourcing what they needed, which I surmised meant chemicals for explosives. From the sounds of it they were aiming for something similar to a pipe bomb to be left in a public area. Nasty business, those things, they tended to do a lot of damage to human flesh. The kind of thing designed to get attention and leave a lasting impression on the populace. Their venom was predominantly directed at immigrants (or more likely, anyone who looked foreign to them), so it was plausible that they intended to strike at one of the many ethnic enclaves in London. 

So today was the day they would be at their clandestine shooting range, and John would meet Jack. I considered my choice of disguises, something very unlike my usual attire so I could follow at a safe distance while remaining ‘under the radar.’ I would need to be mobile and quick, so I pulled out my old leather gear and made the arrangements (at exorbitant expense, I might add) to rent a motorcycle. With the GPS in John’s boot I would not have to follow too closely and with the bike I could catch up with ease once they had landed. 

The GPS took me to a forsaken area outside a run-down industrial park with a number of large hangers, formerly storage for large machinery. I took my place in a copse of dense thickets at a discreet distance from where the men were gathering. Pulling out my binoculars I saw an area clearly set up for target practice. I was too far to hear the conversations, but close enough to have a plain view. When John emerged from an SUV I tracked his movements closely. it being a day with a damp chill, he was wearing his black jacket and leather gloves which he removed in preparation for positioning himself to shoot. Will drew Jack over and introduced him to John, who nodded and shook his hand. Jack’s stance was clearly challenging, his body language that of one accustomed to dominating the group. He barked something at John, who stood army-straight, nodded again, and commenced to shoot. 

A cheer went up from the group which I could hear clearly from my hiding place. John’s marksmanship had made an impression and I noted with some amusement that I felt pleased and proud of my soldier in spite of the nature of the outing. Will pounded John on the back and even Jack was smiling. They set up for another round at a greater distance and gave John an automatic rifle. Again John hit the mark nearly every time and again was congratulated. The others spread out a bit and lined up for target practice. John said something to Jack, who nodded, and John stepped forward to observe the others shooting. He walked along the line, making comments to a couple of men along the way, clearly correcting their stance and posture. Will and Jack looked on, seeming pleased. Apparently John had passed the audition. 

I waited until the men went into a hanger for the rest of the business of the day. I would have to ensure that Mycroft had this place surveilled. Whatever they were planning, it would behoove the government to have definitive evidence to corroborate John’s information. I got on the bike and headed back to town, feeling a bit bereft and disloyal, knowing John remained behind in that warehouse hanger in the company of men who would not hesitate to do lethal damage if they knew his mission. I tried to focus on the speed of the road going by under my feet but nothing could remove the sense of dread at leaving him behind.


	9. Chapter 9

The flat was dreary in the dim of the evening and even Mrs. Hudson’s visit with tea and food (“because I know how you are when you’ve been left on your own, dear”) did little to add any warmth. After texting Mycroft with the location of the warehouse, I went back to the stubborn composition I’d been working on, but after a desultory attempt I gave it up once again. After a couple of wasted hours pacing and thinking and finally breaking down and smoking a cigarette at the window, I texted John.

—Call me when you get in. SH

— Please. SH

My mobile rang shortly thereafter and I closed my eyes with a deep sigh of relief when I heard his voice.

“Sherlock, hi.” He was quiet and sounded exhausted.

“John. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Been a long a one, though. Learned a bit about what they’re up to. Combat training and shooting practice at a place out of town. Were you able to get the coordinates from the GPS?”

I chuckled. “Actually I had a front row seat. Surely you don’t think I would let you loose on your own out there. Nice shooting by the way. The lads were quite impressed.”

“Christ, I should have known!” Now he was chuckling too. “So you managed to keep an eye on things, of course you did.” His voice became deadly serious then. “So looking at the chemicals and equipment they’re putting together out there, I’d say we’ve got a bombing in the works, not sure exactly what the target will be but could be a news office, a mosque, even a politician’s house. I’m just not sure yet where they’re going with this.”

“I’ve notified Mycroft. He will put surveillance in place at the warehouse.” I paused, considering. “You know you can get out of this at any time, John. If there is any hint that their suspicions are aroused or if you simply want to leave…”

“Sherlock. No. It doesn’t work that way and you know it. If I were to suddenly disappear from the scene, they’d know for sure something was up. They’d simply take off, move their operations to another site, go underground for a while. We’re finally making headway.” (I could almost hear him slowly shaking his head in that stubborn way he has.) “Nope. I’m not going to waste all this effort. Not when I am just beginning to get somewhere.”

I sighed in exasperation. I did not really expect any other response. 

“Alright, John. What’s next?”

“There was talk of some guns coming in at Liverpool. I’ll be going along to take a look at the shipment.” 

“When?”

“Not sure yet. But don’t worry, you'll know where I am. I’ll be sure to wear my army boots.”

I rolled my eyes. “See that you do. And John?”

“Hmm?”

“I… um… just… Sleep well.”

He laughed. “Alright, you git. I miss you too.”

The next couple of days went by with little information from John. He texted me dutifully upon departing for and returning from Liverpool, but I only learned the details of the arms shipment through Mycroft’s surveillance feeds. The video feed from Jack’s office revealed the details of the transaction and gave me my only glimpse of John through that Wednesday and Thursday. He was taciturn in his dealings with Jack and his crew, saying little, looking somber. It served him well in those circumstances but I searched his face in the grainy video for signs of fatigue, of doubt, or any hesitance that would reveal concern about his position. He showed nothing to give himself away. 

Friday afternoon I received a brief text; they would be at the pub later on. I pulled on the hoodie, jeans, and horned rimmed glasses that comprised my uni student outfit and slicked back my hair. That, along with a carefully cultivated slouch was all I needed to again spend the evening observing from behind my laptop in the corner of the Black Dog’s Bone. Will, John, and couple others of their cadre came swaggering in, clearly inebriated, and ordering whisky and beer. They commandeered the area in front of the dart board and proceeded to toast each other for “a job well done.” The conversation quickly deteriorated in quality, with the men discussing women in a manner that I will not deign to reproduce here. John held back, this not being his characteristic mode of engagement regarding the fairer sex, but the others seemed accustomed to his reticence. Suffice to say that the atmosphere was becoming a bit rowdy, so what came next was really no surprise.

Will noticed an old copy of the Daily Mail and picked it up. 

“We need more than booze for celebrating, boys,” Will exclaimed. “How about some nice young ladies to keep us company? Oh, that’s right Johnny, you’d rather the company of that posh boyfriend of yours… except…” (and here he waved the page with the infamous picture of John and the girl) “Awwww, look at this, I am so so sorry! He kicked you out.” They all laughed, including John, but his eyes grew narrow.

“Fuck you Will… You know what? I’m beginning to think you’re jealous.” John stood, grinning, and grabbed his own crotch. “You want some of this? Sorry mate, I got higher standards.” This was met with hoots of derision by the others and Will swatted the side of John’s head with the newspaper in a desultory manner, no real harm done but it must have stung and John was on him in a moment, pushing him into a table, sending pints tumbling to the floor. Will grabbed John by the jumper, trying to put him in a headlock which John easily evaded, tripping Will who fell to the floor.

“Alright mates, that’s enough,” a third man shouted, “we really don’t need a riot,” with John and Will laughing as John extended a hand to Will, helping him up and then righting the table. They all agreed that more whiskey was in order, and as John approached the bar approximately a half dozen uniformed police barreled through the door, pushing other patrons out of the way as they surrounded the group. John held up his hands in a gesture of peace, saying “sorry, sorry officers, we’ll pay for the broken glasses,” with Will drunkenly leaning on his shoulder and giggling slightly, saying “yes of course, we’ll take care of it…” just as the officers grabbed each of them and handcuffed them, marching them towards the door. 

I sighed. I could not post John’s bail myself, being supposedly ‘on the outs’ with him, so I texted a member of the homeless network to see if he were available. As I waited for his reply. I edged over to the door and carefully peered out in the company of several other curious patrons. In the flashing lights of the panda cars I saw none other than Chief Superintendent MacDougal, plodding over to where an officer had John cuffed and shoved up against the side of a car. The very Chief Superintendent with whom John had an altercation during my arrest. This did not bode well.

“What’s this?” He exclaimed in mock surprise. “John Watson, in such good company.” As the officer holding him swung him around to face MacDougal, John stared back at him, looking grimly resigned to his fate. MacDougal looked to another officer who had followed him over. “Owens, you’ve got your area car around the corner I believe?” Owens nodded, and MacDougal said, “We’ll be taking Watson with us,” at which point John, clearly recognizing what was coming, dug in his heels and began to protest loudly. 

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, I’m not bloody well going anywhere with you… Shit, where are you taking me!” all of which served only to goad MacDougal further. 

“Do you really believe you have any say in the matter Watson, you arrogant little tosser? You got off easy last time but I think you’ll find you’re not so lucky now.” 

I frantically texted Mycroft, palms sweaty and heart racing. I dared not show myself and yet I could not leave John in the hands of a vengeful law officer. John’s companions were protesting loudly but were roughly bundled into the waiting squad cars. I left the pub quickly, discreetly following the men holding John between them, pushing him toward the larger police vehicle further down the block. Before they had gone half a block, MacDougal turned and slammed a meaty fist into John’s face, whose knees buckled as he sagged downward. The officers holding him tightened their grip and MacDougal grabbed John by the hair at the back of his head, saying something I could not hear, close to John’s face, clearly vengeful. I looked around frantically for something to distract them.

I hefted a large stone from the pavement and smashed the drivers side window on a Porsche, setting off the alarm, and then I attacked the next expensive vehicle. With both alarms going, the officers stopped and looked around, while the chief superintendent looked at John’s bleeding face and snarled, “Take him to the station and book him for public drunkenness and resisting arrest.”

I’d had to jump a fence to avoid detection as people emerged from nearby doorways to see what was the commotion and to rescue their precious vehicles. Crouching in the darkness, I saw that both Mycroft and the gentleman from my homeless network had replied to my texts, with Mycroft assuring me that an attorney would present herself at the police station to see that no further harm came to John. I instructed the member of the homeless network to wait outside the police station to ensure that John got home safely when released, and to keep me updated on events as they happened. The chief superintendent was more accustomed to administrative work from behind a desk than to the rough and tumble of the street, and I calculated that having had a his bit of revenge before being interrupted, he would not pursue any further physical punishment of John. No, he would be more likely to try to ‘throw the book’ at John and detain him as long as possible. I was pinning my hopes on Mycroft’s expensive attorneys. All that was left for me was the waiting. 

It was near dark the following evening when John was finally released. Dressed as a street person, with a worn hoodie pulled low over my face, in ragged jeans and trainers, I waited in the shadows behind the bins next to the entrance to his bedsit. He trudged slowly up the street from the nearest tube station, his posture telling a story of exhaustion and pain. As he came into the light over the entrance and pulled out his key, I spoke softly. 

“John.”

He startled, and then gave a clear sigh of relief. “You wanker! You scared me half to death.” He smiled (while still looking grim, that tight, thin-lipped grimace that tells me when he is barely tolerating a situation).

“Let’s get you inside, we don’t want to be seen out here.”

He gave a short nod and we entered. I immediately drew him over to the bed and turned on the lamp to assess the damage. The medics had done a half-hearted job with the bandage and I removed it with care. His cheek was split where MacDougal had landed a solid punch (while wearing a ring, the evidence was clear) and his lower lip was split (so, back-handed by one of them at some point after they took him off in the squad car). I wordlessly went and got a towel, some ice, and then his first aid kit from the bath, and began to gently clean the broken skin with antiseptic.

“Did you have your gun on you when you were taken in?”

John shook his head, cringing at the sting of the solution. I took his chin in my hand and surveyed the damage before maneuvering his legs up on the bed. He lay down and I handed him a makeshift ice pack which he held to the side of his head. 

“Alright. Good. One less thing to worry about. I take it Mycroft’s attorney was useful.”

“Yeah, she knows her stuff. Could have been a lot worse, I guess.”

I looked at him closely. “John, are you going to need stitches? I can take you to the A&E right now.”

His brow furrowed at that. “Nope, staying right here. Some butterfly bandaids will work fine after I’m done with this ice.” He grimaced, looking at the towel which now showed blood, and put the ice back on his face. 

I gently stretched out beside him on the narrow bed. He burrowed into my shoulder, adjusting his position to accommodate his sore spots. I stretched an arm over him, checking for other sore spots, ribs, back, hips…

“Sherlock, I’m actually okay. They were downright restrained considering how pissed off they were.”

I took the towel with the ice pack and tossed it aside. I felt behind me for the first aid kit and dug out some bandages. Removing my arm from under his head, I opened the package and gently taped up his cheek before again sliding one arm under him and wrapping him in an embrace.

“Sleep now, John. I will stay the night.”

He chuckled a bit. “I’m warning you, there are roaches.”

I laughed at this. “You have not seen roaches until you’ve seen the inside of a crack house, John. These can’t compare, not even close.”

“Okay tough guy. I can’t argue with you on that one.” And with that he drifted off. I held him long after my arm went numb and my back became stiff. Safe there, and basically sound, he slept well that night.


	10. Chapter 10

The next day dawned with a dismal grey light and the sound of rain. I had slept lightly and when I opened my eyes, John was snoring quietly. We had fallen asleep fully dressed, and he smelled of blood and sweat. I was wearing my homeless outfit and smelled even worse. Suddenly a wave of longing for Baker Street washed over me, of wishing we could go home and make tea and watch telly while waiting for Mrs. Hudson to bring up some scones. Sentiment. As always, so incredibly useless. Particularly while we were suspended in this damp limbo of a room and John was immersed in a labyrinth of lies and malice, a place where violent imaginings were coalescing into real world plans designed to bring needless destruction. He stirred and I worked my arm out from under him and flexed my hand to bring back some circulation.

His first sound was a groan, and he reached up to cover his eyes. “Christ my head is pounding. Any paracetamol in the kit?”

I got the pills and some water and helped him sit up in bed. As he swallowed them I checked my mobile for the nearest coffee shop. “Coffee or tea for you this fine morning, John?”

“The way I feel I’m tempted to say whiskey but I’m guessing that’s not the best option. I’ll take tea and a croissant if they have them.”

“Do you want a shower before I leave?” He shook his head.

“I’m not moving until the paracetamol takes hold and I have some caffeine in me. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

On returning I found him sitting in bed, back against the wall, holding his gun. Seeing it was me, he engaged the safety and slid it under his pillow. 

“I got a text from Jack while you were out. I’m to meet up with him for a drive out to the warehouse for a meeting today.”

I put our food on the bedside table. “When do you leave?” 

“Not for a couple hours. Long enough to…” Before he could finish I slid down on the bed and enclosed him in my arms. I began kissing his neck and worked my way up to his ear, his chin, his face, avoiding the injuries. He leaned into me, kissing back but clearly hampered by pain. 

“Don’t do anything, John. Let me. Just tell me to stop if you need me to.”

“Ah, no, not at all, by all means keep going… ahh, yeah, you can actually keep doing that…” as I opened his jeans and slid my hand inside. I wrapped one arm around his back and felt him grow hard in my other hand. I pressed my mouth against the shell of his ear and murmured with a smile, 

“Come John, if we take this to the shower we can accomplish two things at once. Unless of course you want to eat first.”

He was already far enough gone that he merely groaned, this time with pleasure as I continued to work on him with hands and tongue. At last he gasped, “shower, yeah… sounds good,” and I had his vest and jeans off before he got up to cross the room. My clothes were on the floor next as we finally met under the warm flow of water, blissful, skin on skin, washing away all the dregs of the previous day and night. We know each other’s bodies well, know when to ease up and when to press harder. His was a natural talent for sex, operating on instinct and a fierce appetite. As for me, I devoted the same attention and study to pleasuring him as I do to any other vital experiment, trying different techniques and noting his response, adjusting pressure and speed according to whether I wished him to come quickly or in a prolonged and drawn-out shudder. Today was quick and intense, and when we finished we were both spent, but very pleasantly so. I felt restored to myself for the first time in days in that grubby little bathroom, wrapping a towel around my talented lover and rubbing the tension from his shoulders. 

“I don’t suppose you have any extra clean pants here, do you John?” 

“Oh I think I can come up with something,” he grinned. “Hate to see that beautiful bum of yours in that ratty underwear again.”

We sat and ate without dressing, and I counted up every bruise revealed on his skin. I speculated about the ways I could make MacDougal pay for each and every injury. I am not a good person, much as John persists in believing otherwise. And I have a powerful imagination. 

“Oi, Sherlock.” John pulled me out of my thoughts. “You’re obsessing again. Not really necessary to go there.”

“Tell me, John, what did MacDougal say to you after he punched you?”

“What do you mean? When?”

“He punched you, you buckled over, he grabbed your hair and pulled your head back and said something to you that I could not hear!” I was furious all over again.

“Oh, right, that. He thinks I’ve gone rogue. Said I’ve gone over to their side.” 

He looked down for a moment, and when he spoke again, it was with real disgust. "As if I would join up with those vicious, racist, egotistical, self-indulgent arseholes! Christ I'm sick of listening to their immature whinging every day. They're like a bunch of kids, thinking everything's supposed to go their way, the world should honor their natural superiority. Although I gotta say Jack is of a different order. He's just plain malicious, carries a chip on his shoulder bigger than a house. Never forgave them for kicking him out of the service, never mind he deserved it."

I was at a loss. "John... " I began.

"Listen, I saw what happened in Afghanistan when extremists decide they have the right to use violence to get their way. You don't know, Sherlock. The women... the children. Christ, the children. Torn apart - literally - because of someone's fucked up agenda. There are some things you don't forget. These guys have got to be stopped, Sherlock. If I can help that happen, I have to do it. That's just how it is."

I reached over and placed my hand on the back of his head, and brought our foreheads together, just touching. And kissed his brow before letting go. I had nothing to say to John at that moment, but had much to think about. This was not a good development. If MacDougal truly believed what he said, that John had gone to the other side, a man like him would feel justified in doing anything he saw fit in response. And I wondered at the mental toll on John, spending nearly every day in the company of toxic thugs. Things were getting messy, and messy things were impossible to control.

Standing in Lestrade’s office later that day, I watched rain drip down the window. I’d been home and made myself appear civilized again, and now was contemplating how to proceed. I turned to Lestrade.

“You know there was a fracas at the Black Dog’s Bone this week.”

“Yeah, heard about that one.” He leaned back in his chair. “I know John was involved and got a bit banged up in the process.”

“Got a bit banged up? Is that what they are calling it these days when an officer of the law beats a civilian who has his hands cuffed behind his back, Lestrade? How genteel!”

“Now wait a minute Sherlock, the word is that John was resisting arrest. Last time that happened, he almost broke the Chief Super’s nose.”

I walked around to the the front of his desk where I leaned over, placing my hands on his desk, and glared. “That. Is. Not. What. Happened. Here.” I straightened up. “You know MacDougal and you know what is really happening Lestrade, even if it is inconvenient to acknowledge it. And we have a serious problem here. John is caught between the Squad, a group of armed hooligans who are beginning to trust him, and MacDougal, who after putting his name forward for the job has suddenly decided not to trust him. He is now at risk from both sides, Lestrade, are you too dense to fully comprehend the implications of that!” 

Lestrade sat up looking grim. “Alright, mate. Sit down and let’s think about this together.” He took a swig of his coffee. 

I reluctantly took one of the chairs in front of his desk. I needed him in on this. Lestrade was the only contact I trusted at the Yard and I needed a contact. 

“I need to know what MacDougal is planning. For all we know, this was a setup from the start and this is all part of his plan.”

“Sherlock, I know I owe you one. A big one, after what you went through with the Yard. And I consider John a friend, a good friend, never mind his bad temper and PTSD…”

“WHICH he acquired while treating other soldiers in the service of Queen and Country!” I was shouting in frustration at this point.

Lestrade winced a bit. “Yeah, Sherlock, I get that, I really do. I want him out of this in one piece as bad as… well, ok, almost as bad as you do!”

“Well then, think about this. Was it somehow mere coincidence that MacDougal was in on the raid on the Black Dog the other night? Unlike my own arrest, breaking up a group of rowdies at a pub is hardly a high-profile activity, and a chief superintendent is not usually party to such routine activities. He’s been monitoring this group and knew John would be there. Maybe he just saw an opportunity to get a bit of his own back for the grudge he has clearly been nursing ever since John humiliated him in front of his own people. Maybe he fancies himself a Machiavelli and thinks he can ensnare the whole group even if he must sacrifice John in the process, it is hard to tell from here. Maybe there is something else at work, I just don’t have enough data to draw a conclusion. But it makes little sense for him to risk sabotaging the entire operation. I don’t know what he’s up to and I don’t like it!”

“Look, Sherlock, if anyone can figure this one out, you can. I can keep a discreet eye on what is happening here, but I’m not privy to MacDougal’s planning. I’ll see if I can ask around. Discreetly.”

I left the Yard feeling in no way reassured. The Diogenes Club would need to be my next stop, and I flagged a cab.

As I walked into the Visitor’s Room, Mycroft had already pulled up the feed to Jack Davies’ office on his laptop. The video revealed a conversation regarding technical details of materials and personnel. John appeared to be stationed by the door, armed with a Glock - not his usual piece, but effective. 

“So do we have the gist of their plan yet, brother dear?” 

Mycroft looked sour. He sighed, “I’m afraid whatever plans have been made were not made at this meeting place. It is likely that only one or two of Davies’ confederates know of the actual target. We need to find out, and hopefully soon. We do know there are plans for at least two bombs, with materials for more.” He looked thoughtful. “John has been appointed as the armed guard for their meetings as well as running shooting drills for the men. I think it safe to assume his presence will be required at whatever event they have in the works. But whether he will have any advance knowledge of the timing and the target - that is doubtful. And we need to have compelling evidence of their plans before we lower the boom. We don't know where their higher-level planning meetings are taking place. As yet none of our surveillance feeds have captured any specific discussion of their intent to commit violence. They talk about combat training and available supplies, but we need an air-tight case before bringing them to justice. A conspiracy charge will be much more compelling to the Crown than a mere illegal arms charge.”

“And we have a further complication,” I noted. Mycroft nodded. As ever, he knew my priorities.

“Yes. Chief Superintendent MacDougal. His motives at this point are unclear beyond his ambition to right the scales of justice by getting back at John Watson.”

“Are you aware that he feels John has ‘gone rogue’ as he put it, Mycroft?”

“Oh dear. Well, that clearly is not a welcome development. Still, the Yard wants to see this one resolved without blood being spilled and I doubt that MacDougal will sacrifice his professional ambitions in exchange for petty revenge, no matter what his personal feelings towards our good doctor.”

“You’re very cavalier brother dear, when someone else’s blood is on the line.”

“I fear you give your soldier too little credit, Sherlock. He did, after all, survive Afghanistan.”

“Just barely.” I got up and got into my coat. “And if John is not privy to the time and place of their eventual bombing? What then? Or do you just plan to let them succeed in their ambitions.”

“Sherlock, we’ve been monitoring these individuals for some time, particularly Jack Davies. While serving in Her Majesty’s forces, his views on other races got him removed from the service since he could not tolerate being given orders by anyone whose skin was darker than his. Given this group’s antipathy towards immigration and their rose-colored nostalgia for the good old days of the British empire, we can assume their target or targets will be related to their sense of grievance. That narrows it down somewhat.”

He looked up in amusement. “Besides, I assume the GPS you planted on Dr. Watson was not a cheap model? It should continue to function long enough for us to follow him to whatever target they have planned.”

“Not good enough, Mycroft. I want him out of there before they actually go about planting bombs all over London.” As I opened the door, I made myself clear. “As soon as we discover their intended targets, I am bringing him home.”

But that was not to be.


	11. Chapter 11

It was late afternoon when I returned to Baker Street. I set my mind to the task of hacking MacDougal’s official email account, something long overdue. I found numerous exchanges with the Commissioner about the Squad, including MacDougal’s initial suggestion that John would make a good candidate to infiltrate - “in spite of being a medical doctor, he is a bit of a ruffian. But he’s a former soldier, he’s bright, and not one to back down from a fight,” he said. (All of that true, well done MacDougal.) 

In those same emails, the commissioner expressed concerns that “alt-right” extremist groups were possibly beginning to infiltrate the ranks of the Yard itself. He charged MacDougal with looking into this, ensuring the integrity of their own personnel. MacDougal downplayed this possibility, assuring the commissioner of the reliability of his subordinates. 

Then I saw a key piece of information: the commissioner referenced a previous attempt to “catch Davies in the act” of planning a bombing. The Yard had information about the time and place of his planned meeting with a man from Dublin, an explosives expert, and the Yard had surveillance in place to catch their meeting in progress. Somehow Davies was tipped off and the meeting never took place. While they did not know who the counter-agent might be, they had various suspicions, and in an email after John’s arrest, MacDougal wrote “informants often cannot be trusted to remember which side they’re on.” I doubted John actually even knew about the Davies’ planned meeting, but not being privy to all his meetings with Mycroft, I could not know for sure. What I did know for sure is that the leak did not come from John.

I retrieved a pack of cigarettes from my stash, muttering “you can yell at me if you want, John, these are necessary to my thinking at this particular moment.” I flopped on the couch in my preferred position for contemplating the many strings of inference that needed to be woven into a cohesive whole. MacDougal was not a deep thinker, driven by prejudices that he was not even aware he held. He had a strong aversion to anyone he felt was a “vigilante” as he deemed me during my arrest. He clearly preferred to believe his men could not betray him or the Yard. But John, against whom he already held a grudge, was pegged in his mind as the traitor. And he could not resist attending a lowly pub brawl to “get his licks in” as the saying goes, and to let John know that he was on to him - although once again MacDougal was as mistaken as he could be.

That left the question: who had tipped off Davies and enabled him to avoid being caught in the act of planning a bombing? Given the propensities of some of the more extreme Yard members, I could not write off the possibility that one or two of them were members of an alt-right group, or at the very least sympathizers. Of greater urgency was the recognition that if the informant was indeed a member of Scotland Yard, that person would also likely know that John was working for the government. 

Clearly John was on shaky ground. I texted Lestrade.

—a matter of urgent importance. I am on my way to your office. SH

—Sherlock, I was FINALLY about to get supper It’s been a long one.

—You have time to get chips from the machine before I arrive. SH

When I arrived at the Yard, Lestrade hunched over his computer, immersed in the bureaucratic trivia of his job. As I took a seat in front of his desk, he rose without a word to me and stuck his head out his office door.

“Sally? Could you c’mere a moment?” She appeared and Lestrade gestured her to a chair, closing his door. Interesting.

“Ok Sherlock, you asked me to keep my ears open to any Yard member who might be influenced by a group like the Squad. Sally has something you want to hear.” 

Sally Donavan launched into her discourse with some energy, as if expecting me to argue.

“Look Holmes, I know you were wondering about bad apples at the Yard. And yeah, after John got beat up I can understand you thinking that MacDougal was the main problem. But for what it’s worth, my money’s on Owen.”

Owen. MacDougal’s driver the night John was arrested at the pub. “I am all ears, Sally. Tell me more.”

“There’s a lot of guys here who aren’t crazy about all the immigrants coming into London. For most of them it’s just the extra trouble that happens with the demonstrations and counter-demonstrations. But for at least a couple of them, it’s a lot deeper than that. Owens is one of them. Genuinely racist, a radical right-winger from the start. Believe me Holmes, I know how to spot them.

I looked over at Sally. Brown skin, curly dark hair, tough demeanor. Not an imaginative thinker (which in this case was reassuring, she was not likely to be conjuring up conspiracies) and really not at all stupid (except perhaps in her choice of men). I nodded and she continued.

“There’s rumors about a couple of the men even joining up with alt-right groups, thinking we all need to get tougher on crime, as they see it. What they really don’t want to see are black and brown people getting fed up and demanding their rights. Mind you, not much cop in anyone busting things up or burning the town down, but someone like Owen isn’t thinking about that. They just want whites to stay on top. And I’ve got no use for that, either.”

I leaned back and put my hands together. My mind was whirring. 

“And Owen knows all about John’s involvement infiltrating The Squad.”

“He’s been reprimanded for rough behavior with suspects. More than once.” Lestrade was thoughtful. “So we’re wondering how reliable is his loyalty to the Yard.”

“There is an excellent possibility that it was he who tipped off Davies a while back,” I said while simultaneously texting John. “We have no time to lose in getting John out of there.”

—Call at once. SH

No response. Not completely unusual, given that John was undercover, but intolerable nonetheless. I turned on the tracking device. 

“Come, Lestrade. We can find him.”

He and Sally followed as I strode out the door, Lestrade calling instructions to one of the teams for backup as we went. A text came through from John at that moment.

—TONIGHT IS IT 2 TARGETS ELIJAH COOKE IMMIGRATION SERVICES OFFCE AND TUBE STA

And the message stopped.

Shit. Shit shit shit. My mind filled with reasons why John would have been unable to complete his message. Hopefully he merely needed to cut it short because he realized someone was coming. Hopefully no one saw him. Hopefully no one grabbed his phone from him, hopefully no one was pummeling him to his death at this very moment, hopefully… 

STOP. Panic is useless, always. I texted Mycroft, who reminded me that we could find the tube station if we tracked John’s signal. (Yes, dear brother, I had thought of that.) He was on it, calling in reinforcements. I’d already zeroed in on John’s location to the northeast on the map as we ran down the stairwell to the garage at the Yard. We tore out of the station, siren wailing, with Lestrade behind the wheel. Sally was on the radio, alerting other units. I located Cooke’s Immigration Services on the map and shouted to Lestrade-

“Bethnal Green! They are going to Bethnal Green Station, the immigration services office is nearby and John’s GPS signal is in that direction.” 

If I were not already in a panic I may have admired Lestrade’s skill in maneuvering through the traffic at high speed. Between Sally’s reports and Mycroft’s people, no doubt the bomb squad was assembling at both addresses. As we pulled up, lights were flashing outside the tube station and people were pouring out, already in the process of evacuation. Further down, more lights, and people being evicted from an office building. That would be the immigration offices. 

But the GPS signal was not exactly aligned with the Station. I ran at breakneck speed to the site of the immigration offices closely followed by Lestrade and Donovan, but the GPS signal was centered even further down the road. 

“DAMNIT! He’s further down here, THIS WAY!” 

As I ran, Lestrade and Donovan followed without question. I came to a dark brick building, sides encrusted with graffiti, in the dark shadow of the overhead tracks. John had to be inside, but where? I zeroed in on his signal as near as I was able and threw myself at the black, rusted metal door. It gave with a screech and I activated the light on my mobile. Boxes and indeterminate pieces of junk were scattered about. Donovan pulled out a torch and shone it around. 

I sniffed the air and stepped slowly into the interior. 

“John?” He had to be here. We were right on top of the signal. There was a stairway going down on our right and I heard a movement. 

“JOHN?” I started down the stairs and saw a shape in the darkness downstairs, someone seated on the ground in front of a metal support column, a white face, movement. I could smell him. John. Donovan shone her light at the figure and there he was, hands tied in back of the metal pillar, duct tape over his mouth. He was shaking his head ‘no’ frantically, trying to mouth the words, sweating with panic, but John does not panic, I have seen him face death with aplomb, what was he trying to say as we crossed the distance toward him…

Oh. John does not panic for his own safety. But for mine… Oh My God.

I held out an arm and stopped Sally and Lestrade from moving forward. 

“Wait! Your torch, Sally, please.”

She handed it over without a word. I carefully ran the light over the remaining floor that separated us from John. In the light I saw it: a trip wire of some sort. John tilted his head back, clearly in relief, trying to breathe through the gag. So there was a third bomb and it was here somewhere. And I saw it then, the timer on the device glowing red with the countdown, mere feet from where John was tied. Two minutes and 45 seconds and counting.

“John. Look at me. Are there other trip wires?” 

He looked up into the harsh light, and carefully shook his head, ‘no’. I carefully walked forward and stepped over the wire. Lestrade and Donovan followed with equal care. John was still shaking his head and when I tore off the duct tape he gasped, “get out of here, get out. Sherlock, you have to get out,” and I was examining the handcuffs (damn!) that held his arms behind him, around the pillar, and I was screaming at Lestrade to get the bomb squad back here as quickly as possible, hurry, and he ran and I was telling Sally to get out as I pulled out my lock picks, and John was hurting, clearly, white as a sheet and one arm was swollen, likely broken and still telling me to get out, “no time, Sherlock, not enough time,” and I told him “SHUT UP JOHN.”

As I began to work on the lock, I kept up a constant patter to John, “really you are even a worse idiot than I thought if you think I can’t manage to get these off you in under a minute, you completely underestimate my skills, John, I’m surprised at you, surprised and disappointed both…”

And the timer kept ticking down. Less than 2 minutes remained. John looked at Sally and rasped, 

“Sally, get out, you don’t need to be here.” 

She rolled her eyes and responded, “Well mate I guess you’re stuck with me. You’re a little guy but if you’re not steady when we get you up, you’re gonna need the two of us, I mean, have you looked at Freak? I think he’s lost a couple stone worrying over you, nope I think it will take two of us to get you over that trip wire and out of here…”

I got it. The lock clicked and I pulled the cuffs off his wrists. He gasped and winced, clearly injured but free from the restraints and Sally and I were dragging him up, ignoring the groans and his muttered apologies, with the timer ticking down below one minute and the stairs ahead of us. Could we do it, we had to do it, there was no way I was losing him now, come on John, I heard myself talking, not knowing if I was just thinking or talking out loud, John you know I’ve been smoking every day since you left, we were at the trip wire, lifting, Sally was right, it took two, John, you have to keep going to yell at me when we are out of here… we were dragging him, pulling him up the stairs and John, for his part, trying to keep his feet under him and staggering forward…

We were at the top of the stairs when the building exploded.


	12. Chapter 12

First a silence. And then, slowly, a ringing and muffled voices. Sirens somewhere. I brushed the dust and grit off my face and opened my eyes, right, a bomb, we were dragging John up the stairs, JOHN! I felt for him and found his shoulder, he was not moving, lifting my head I saw Sally stirring, her hair powdered white in concrete dust. 

The ringing in my head was slowly subsiding. We’d escaped the worst of it, no large debris landed on us but John was not conscious and I felt his neck, thank God finding a pulse there. He coughed weakly, his chest in a spasm where he lay in the dust. Sally had pushed herself to her knees and was shouting for Lestrade and the medics, but her voice sounded far away. I felt John’s shoulders, neck, no obvious (new) damage but the injured arm was at an awkward angle (his right, thank goodness, at least he would have the use of his dominant hand.) He barely stirred as I shouted his name. My own voice sounded far away. I gently brushed dust and grit off his eyes, his nose, his mouth. He was breathing but his skin was grey and his lips bluish. Shock.

And then the medics were upon us in their pandemic gear, dragging gurneys over the rubble, and I was trying to see what they were doing with John while they were trying to talk to me, asking stupid questions I could barely hear and I was batting them away. I saw John strapped in a spinal brace and being lifted to the gurney and then it was my turn - they were accustomed to non-cooperative patients and had me strapped into the gurney quickly and efficiently. Sally was on her feet and they were helping her along as we were removed from the building out into the night air and the people and the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles. It was too much, and I closed my eyes again.

I did not open them during the ride in the ambulance, except for those times when the medic insisted on shining a penlight in my face to check my pupils. Clearly I was not badly injured other than a bump on the head, and there was really no need to be on a gurney in an ambulance. It was, however, the quickest way to get to wherever they were taking John so I acquiesced. I mentally tracked the blocks we traveled and the turns we took, we would be going to the nearest A&E that was accepting patients, so it would not be long. 

Once there, I tolerated the process of the medical exam as well as I was able in order to get through it as quickly as possible. When I could wait no longer, I informed the staff at the A&E that I would be leaving shortly; they’d had plenty of time to take my vital signs and clearly I was, for the record, “oriented and alert.” I rinsed off as well as I was able in the nearest rest room and as I was signing myself out (against medical advice, irrelevant), Mycroft appeared at the entrance and approached to let me know that John was in radiology for x-rays. 

“He is groggy, as you might well imagine given the ordeal he’s endured, and he likely will have surgery on the arm tomorrow morning. Fortunately one of London’s finest orthopedic surgeons had time open in his schedule.”

I could not help but smirk. “Right. How fortuitous, Mycroft.” 

He smiled - a bit - and gave me a brief nod. “Indeed. It is the least we can do for him. His actions saved the lives of many people today, Sherlock. And it is fortunate as well that Owen did not kill him outright when he finally put two and two together and realized John was working for us. Apparently Owen thought it would be clever to set a trap that would ensnare you as well as a policeman or two in the bargain.”

I sagged a bit, and realized I could not endure not seeing John for one more minute. I had to know he was breathing and would mend. 

“Which way is radiology?”

“I’ll show you, brother mine, if you will come this way…”

A brisk walk down several interminable corridors brought us to the swinging doors of the department. Through the windows in the doors I saw a gurney, facing away with the head slightly raised, surrounded by medical personnel.  
I took a deep breath and pushed open the doors, and heard John’s voice, weak but coherent, asking about the surgical procedure. I walked up slowly and the doctors looked up as I came around to the side of the gurney, seeing his pale face with the evidence of the injuries of the last few days, his right arm encased in a bundle of padding. He stopped in mid sentence and fixed on my face, reaching out with his left arm, dragging the IV line across the blanket as he did, reaching for me. I froze. The relief was so powerful that I simply blinked and stared for a few moments.

“Hey.” He said fondly, softly. “I’m okay.”

“Is that what you call this? I don’t think so.” I was angry, and to hell with the audience. The medical staff looked at each other, uncomfortable. 

One of the staff said, “We’ll give you a few minutes,” and they drifted over to the desk to confer but clearly were listening closely to us. Mycroft said he would go let Lestrade know what was happening, and then it was just John and myself. I leaned over and gingerly kissed his forehead, not sure where it was safe to touch without jostling him. 

“Sherlock. Really. They gave me some terrific pain meds and it sounds like no nerve damage to the arm. I’ll need a metal plate and some pins, but with that it’ll be fine.”

“John, I… I can’t… I don’t… even know what happened to you. I lost sight of you and now. This.” I knew I was not making sense. It was the best I could do under the circumstances. I reached out and felt the stubble on his chin. It was scratchy. 

“Well? You like it? He grinned weakly. “Time to grow a beard?”

I felt as if I were under water. I tried to draw a deeper breath but could not get past the knot in my chest. John looked a bit worried. 

“Sherlock. Talk to me.”

“There is nothing to say. Do you know what you do to me when you do this? Do you? I knew it would end like this, if not worse!“

“Hey, Sherlock, nothing has ended. I’m here, you are here, WE are here, for that matter.”

“Thank you for that brilliant summation, doctor! Very impressive!” I was still angry, done with his tendency to make jokes and deny the pain of it. As he so often did. If he thought he could placate me to avoid dealing with what he had been through, what we both had been through, he was much mistaken. But then he closed his eyes, and turned his head away and I could see every line on his weathered face deepen in despair. 

I carefully reached out to cup the side of his face with my hand. 

“John. Forgive me. What I meant to say is you can stop being brave now. You are safe and I am here. I will not leave your side until you are whole and strong again.”

He nodded and opened his eyes, tearful now, and I could see all the fear and hurt of the last days in his face. He reached for me and I leaned in. 

“Shhh. I’m here. I will not leave you. I will stay right here until you get so sick of me you will be swearing and yelling at me to leave you in peace. And even then, I will always come right back.” And in this I was true to my word.

The days passed. He had his surgery, slept most of the time for the 36 hours following. I monitored his progress from the reclining chair at his bedside, instantly awake when he awoke, when staff entered to take his vital signs, when he needed help walking to the bathroom. Friends came by, Mrs. Hudson bringing biscuits and flowers and fussing over him in her own inimitable way. Lestrade teased him about his appearance and let him know he could take the time he needed to give his complete report. John did not talk of what had happened between the time he and I last spoke and Owen outed him to the gang. I did not push him. 

And so he got back on his feet and finally came home. By the time a month had passed, he was down to two physical therapy sessions a week and was regaining the strength in his right arm. We slept with a small lamp lit in the room, something new that helped him orient himself in the night so he did not awaken in the darkness hearing the ticking of the timer on the bomb. He wrote in his blog and his readership expanded exponentially now that the story was out about the brave veteran who had thwarted an attempted terrorist bombing. Well, three terrorist bombings to be exact. Of the other two bombs, one had been defused (in the law offices) and the other had detonated but with no loss of life. He gave his reports to Mycroft and to the Commissioner, who was initiating an investigation into alt-right influences at the Yard. MacDougal was likely to see a demotion (if not worse) based on his actions. 

As we spent the time together one cold and sunny afternoon, I contemplated all that had occurred over the last several weeks. I sat back in my chair, thinking hard, while John had made tea. He was now seated on the rug in front of the hearth, nursing a small flame that he had started with kindling. I went to join him, putting two small logs within reach, glad that he allowed me to help. 

“Was it worth it, John? Everything it cost you to stop those thugs?”

He did not look up, contemplating his response. Finally he spoke.

“Sherlock, there are many reasons why I admire you. Not just your massive brain - although, alright, that is a turn on - but because you are your own man. Someone worth following. You’re not swayed by public opinion or the approval of others. You have an internal compass - even when I disagree, it guides you, no matter what the obstacles. No matter who disagrees. Do you not see that that is something I would want for myself after years of people-pleasing, of following your lead, of trying to do the “right thing” by everyone else’s rules? This was one time when I wanted to do what I knew was right, and to hell with everyone else’s agenda. Even yours.

“As for those thugs, well… It wasn’t just about stopping them, Sherlock. Don’t get me wrong, I am delighted to have done so. But you know, well, ever since I got back from Afghanistan I’ve wondered…”

I waited in silence.

“This is going to sound ridiculous but y’know I wondered, could I do it again. Could I be the man I was there, not just the jumping into danger part, but taking command, not just following your lead. There are things I still miss…”

He rarely spoke so freely, and I resolved that I would respond in kind. 

“You may believe, John, that I don’t understand any of it, what you lost when you were sent back home. But I saw the way you joked around with those men, I saw that you knew how to do that… even in a group of renegades like these, you knew how to command their respect. The army was a particular culture that suited you, I can see that, and I know it cost you a lot when you were cast out and sent back here… with no particular purpose left in life. Over there you’d had your command and the admiration of your men. And now…”

I paused, and turned to face him directly as we sat there with the flames growing and beginning to send off their warmth.

“Now, John, you have my admiration. You have had for a long time but perhaps you did not realize how much I rely on your strength and your own inner compass to keep me upright.”

He held my gaze and I leaned in for the kiss. It would have gone deeper had Mrs. Hudson not come up the stairs, calling out her familiar greeting like a bird alighting on our threshold. She saw us and whispered as if she caught us in a secret rendezvous,

“Boys I hate to interrupt but Sergeant Donovan is here to see you.”

Interesting. Sally Donovan on a social call?

“Send her up,” I replied, and helped John up into his chair. 

Sally entered, greeting us with “Holmes, John, how are you two?” She smiled. “Playing nice with each other?” I would have bristled but John just laughed.

“As well as we ever do, Sally! What can we do for you?”

She pulled a sheaf of papers out of her messenger bag. “I’ve got your written affidavit printed out, doc, so I thought I’d get your signature. You heard the trial is scheduled for the beginning of next month, right?”

John nodded, and she continued, “So, um, I guess I will leave these with you today to look over. I can pick them up tomorrow.”

John took the papers and thanked her. She stood as if to leave but then hesitated. 

“Anything else, Sally?” I asked.

“Well, look, I just wanted to say… should’ve said it a long time ago. But anyway… Holmes, I was wrong about you. About as wrong as I have ever been about a person. So I just wanted say, well, I am sorry. I made a right idiot of myself. It’s no fun recognizing that there was a lot of fallout from that, for you guys and for everyone involved. So there I’ve said it, go ahead and tell me what an arsehole I am. I already know it.”

John looked from me to her, watching and waiting. I stood slowly and went to Sally, reaching out my hand to hold one of hers. 

“Going forward from here, Sally, you are the officer who helped save my John’s life at great risk to your own. That is all I need. To dwell on the past would be the most futile waste of energy I can imagine.”

John was smiling. Sally shook my hand and thanked me, and John stood to embrace her. When she stepped back her eyes were misty, and she exclaimed, “Okay, enough of that rubbish. When are you two wankers going to get married? It really is long overdue, y’know, and I’ve got a pool going back at the office so if you could arrange it for this January it would really help my vacation fund, I’m just saying…”

She and I bickered about the time needed for planning a wedding all the way down the stairs.

And soon thereafter it came to this: my husband-to-be looking quite dapper, adjusting his tie in the mirror while I watched, preparing for his first day of testimony in court. I had an enormous sense of deja vu, noticing the press clustered outside. He stood upright and strong, my soldier, and I felt myself puff with pride. 

This was not the way I thought it would end, with John stronger and surer than ever, and with a feeling that there were unfathomable depths to my feelings for him yet to be explored. I thought about our years ahead and his ability to surprise me, still. But for his presence, my life would have been a hollow shadow of what I now experienced and I could sense the great adventures that awaited us in our future. The notion that we would be living it out together created a universe of possibilities that I would not have imagined before. As John turned to me, he nodded, serious and composed, ready for the job ahead of him, and together we went down those stairs to face the press.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the final chapter of this particular adventure! Please please leave a comment and let me know what you thought. Hope you enjoyed the ride, and thanks for reading.  
> NanMarie  
> PS: Want to see some more? ;)


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